


baby i got the death rattle

by aestheticisms (R_Vienna)



Category: IDOLiSH7 (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hoshi Meguri (IDOLiSH7), Assassination Attempt(s), Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 17:24:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16791403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Vienna/pseuds/aestheticisms
Summary: [Hoshi Meguri AU.] Sleeping beauty wakes up from a millenium of sleep to a knife pressed against his throat. (Vega & Lazu)For the 2018 Idolish7 Flash Bang!





	baby i got the death rattle

**Author's Note:**

> weeee finally did it!  
> first of all, i'd like to thank the idolish7 flashbang mods! they were super on-top-of-it in administering the event, and i had such a blast! second, i'd like to thank my artist, Nemunemuru! you can find them on twitter @A_S_R_Nemu. we had a lot of fun working together, and i could not have been blessed with a more fitting partner! (https://twitter.com/a_s_r_nemu/status/1068539212935290881?s=21) 
> 
> writing hoshi meguri RIGHT before we got all of the hoshi lore was really a trip and a half, but i hope you enjoy this interpretation. i really enjoy mezzo'' drama lol;;;;
> 
> thank you for everything! 
> 
> \-- angie (@oceanblogging)

.

.

.

> “i went to the palmist and asked her to read  
>  no heart line, no sun line, no life line, no need  
>  said, ‘all that i wanted was a quiet life  
>  not one predetermined by minuscule slices  
>  into my [flesh](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O7f_WMMSvuM).’”

.

.

.

The ceremonial knife is one Vega knows all too well. Forged out of stardust and passed down from king’s grave to king’s grave. It was Eterno’s pact to the other Stars, meant for the heart that held the Great Star.

It was _bound_ to him.

Its elegant blade carves out a string of pearls, dyed red with the ichor of Mistero’s grace. There’s no need to move from his perfect bed, swathed in off-white handspun sheets and sheer organza. If he so much as blinks, he’ll spill, and that would only cause unnecessary trouble for his apostles.

Ah. What a disgrace. All of it. The open window, the tarnished curtains, and the knife at his throat.

A creature of midnight writhes underneath the pale moonlight.

“No one said you’d be awake.”

A mutter behind darkness, the shadow hesitates. Yes, no one said he would be awake. Who could have made such a prediction when he’s been one with sleep for a millenium. Waking up was the unthinkable, nations have fallen and come to life in the course of his slumber, they hinge on his existent non-existence. What an awful shame, really, Vega wants to apologize to this boy. Because he is a boy underneath the layers and the gauze, his lips part in a way that makes his chest ache. The boy grits his teeth and shoves Vega down. Bloody pinpricks slide down porcelain skin.

“Will you still do it?”

Vega is a ghost dressed in fineries meant for a funeral. The Great Star was a burden for eternity. Once granted the gift of knowledge, there was nothing left that humans could ever hope to understand. The Star held hope for a future: the most vile of all gifts. A blessing, a curse, what it was would never change. Only the stories that accompanied it, only the songs that would always make it worth so much more than it truly was.

The Star has done nothing but hurt him.

“Will you kill me?”

It would be the greatest gift of them all. Mistero would fall with his end, yes, but it’s been kept afloat by prayers and wishes of the masses so desperate to see him walk once more. Vega has kept them in suspense for far too long. If he were to die here, at the hands of an inexperienced, unaffected, a _tarnished_ boy, would that be his mark in history? Would he finally be useful to the greater story in this warring universe? 

The assassin recoils in a way Vega finds amusing--he spent one thousand years in the dark, only to be greeted by it. Death, his own decadent bride, layered in gold-violet crystals and fractured carmine jewels, a boy swaddled in blood red velvet and lavender satin. He casts a long shadow that promised to cover the sun.

“Yeah. It’s my assignment.”

The Star smiles in a way that unnerves, and captivates, he’s sure. His liege would say so, his beautiful features clouded in a way that doesn’t belong on a man with his light-hearted demeanor. “ _Ah_ , _Vega_ ,” he would say so sadly, forlorn and dejected. “-- _that sort of expression doesn’t fit on you, my grace._ ”

What kind of expression was he talking about?

“I wonder if that’s true. You’ve had plenty of time to do so.”

“ _A terrifying sort of expression, perhaps_?” Capella’s voice echoes throughout the chamber.

“ _Something that was meant for vices, rather than virtues._ ”

The canopy rustles, and Vega sinks into the imported cotton and down feather pillows, it is a cacophony of color and touch. The wounds begin to heal. The Great Star will not let him die, not without fulfilling his duty. It seems like they are both bound by something far greater than themselves.

It must be fate, to meet like this.

The boy digs his knees into embroidered dress robes. The knife digs into the mattress, and his dark hand finds a pale throat.

“My king’s orders are absolute. You should’ve stayed sleeping.”

“Is this some sort of act of sympathy? Will you sing me back to sleep?”

The Star lifts his hand up, and his delicate fingers caress the boy’s cheek. He’s bigger, he’s stronger, sure, yes, all of this is true--but he’s hesitating, he’s waiting for something to snap, something to push him over the edge.

A dog without a master is ultimately useless, all bark and no bite to send him careening into the next life.

“Don’t touch me.” It’s guttural, dangerous, and for once, Vega feels awake. The most lucid he has felt in millenia. He thumbs over the fabric that covers the boy’s eyes, presses into the indents and cuts into the curves with painted nails. If he were to tug at the blindfold, just a little bit, would his pretense shatter just as well?

Oh. He’s a little disappointed, really.

“My retainer will be here soon. I’m sure he’s alerted every guard and noble. You won’t make it out alive.”

His eyes are slate gray. The color of a bad sea. A perpetually churning stormcloud.

There’s nothing there. Not a hint of malice, not a hint of kindness. Vega will drown in that gaze. He finds himself reaching towards it, when he leans forward, his elegant capes and layers fall back. He grasps the boy’s face with both hands, nails digging into skin, he wants to make him bleed, there’s something so awfully human about it all, someone who has long abandoned mortality wants nothing more than to partake in the human ritual of give, and take.

So he takes, Vega presses their faces together, white hair on light blue, white clothes on violet, white metal on black.

He doesn’t feel the accursed knife, nestled in the folds of his rib cage. He doesn’t feel anything at all. There’s nothing but the abyss that is a boy with an empty gaze. There’s nothing but his arms around his waist, the boy who takes caution when picking him up. It’s a bit of a joint effort, between the two of them, and Vega wonders if he’s always wanted the opportunity.

The commotion outside, outside the castle gates and the manor doors and the floor to ceiling windows with their broken glass and tattered curtains, it swells. The shouts ring in his ears.

The Great Star is warm in his chest. It sings. Pieces, all of it, all he is, the remains of a once beautiful existence. If he is to die in the arms of an assassin, then he is more sorry than not. He’s sorry for Capella. He’s bound to arrive soon, beautiful Capella with beautiful golden hair and beautiful naivete, eternally tethered to a thankless sleeping beauty.

Mistero’s awfully selfish, selfish grace. A star who wanted nothing more than to shine in an unbound sky.

The knife is a wedding vow.

“Your grace--!”

The boy cradles a dying star in his arms, and does not look back.

“Alba will be taking what is theirs. King Carnelian’s orders.”

The stained bed, the glass shards--the shadow swallows the light.


End file.
